Dag Hammerskjöld, a famous twentieth-century statesman, put it like this, “Do not seek death. Death will find you. But seek the road which makes death a fulfillment.” All his life Melville had sought that road. Now he’d found it. He was on that road, and he was at peace with himself and the universe.
Melville had read about military leaders who entered into this state. They weren’t suicidal, indeed, just the opposite. But once the plan was made, once all possible preparations were taken, and you’re about to see how the dice settle, there can be an enormous peace.
“We are going to attack and board the doggies,” he’d told his officers. “Only they aren’t ‘doggies’ any more. That’s what we called them when they weren’t our foe. I like dogs. The Guldur like to think of themselves as wolves, but they’re nothing but curs. From now on that’s what we will call them, and by the living God we’ll neuter these curs!”
Indeed, that was what the Guldur looked like. Huge dogs, giant mutts, standing on their hind legs. They had opposable thumbs on their paws, and were as varied in color and coat as the dogs of Mother Earth. It was strange, the power that existed in words. Calling them “curs” would make it easier to kill them, and some serious killing was now required.
“In spite of what everyone seems to think, we will win. We are going to meet the enemy bow to bow on the red-side. The curs like boarding actions. Their honor and their doctrine won’t let them deny us a boarding if we come at them with an equal force. They will also think this approach is advantageous to them. Boarding from this direction will bring their lower red-side guns dead against us. What they don’t know is that they have already killed our Ship, so their guns can’t do us much further harm, and we want them to board the lower side. Meanwhile, we’ll all be in the upper bows, where their guns can’t reach us. Then they will reap what they sow, as we leave them to die on the Ship that they killed.”
The midshipmen lay under a tarp in the upper bow of the Kestrel, nibbling on bits of ships biscuit. Beside Crater, Archer and Aquinar were the three other midshipmen who had remained on the Kestrel. The three who’d been part of the away party to Broadax’s World all had their spider monkeys with them. The little creatures still refused to leave their newfound friends and there was no sense in leaving them behind on a dying Ship. Everyone who was adopted by a monkey worried that the creatures might get in the way in battle, but they didn’t see any real choice. And there was something about the little monkeys and their past actions that led the crew members to trust them.
Waiting with the six middies were Josiah Westminster, with the rangers’ remaining dog; Brother Petreckski; and the vast majority of the crew. Melville offered Josiah and Petreckski an opportunity to remain on Broadax’s world, since their duty as purser and ranger could be interpreted to give them an excuse for missing the battle.
Melville smiled at Josiah and put it this way, “How about it, John Carter, you want to play with your Tarka friends some more?”
Josiah grinned his mischievous grin and replied, “Throughout mah life I’ve never turned from the glory road. You sir, are on the glory road, and ah shall follow.”
Melville laughed aloud. He’d opened with Burroughs, and Josiah trumped him with Heinlein.
When he put the matter to Petreckski, the purser simply replied: ” ‘Here I stand. I can do no otherwise.’ ” Melville grinned to hear the words of Martin Luther come out of the monk at this time.
All the cutters were away under Lieutenant Fielder’s command. In place of the cutter that usually filled the Kestrel’s bow, a phony cutter of canvas and wood scraps had been constructed. Busted spars and tangles of rope and sail were artfully placed to make the area a confusing mess. Under this camouflage the crew waited patiently.
Two 12-pounder cannon were also hidden here under a heap of dirty sailcloth, with a double load of grapeshot, poised to fire down into the enemy’s deck. Gunnery Sergeant Don Von Rito lay between the guns with a few hand-picked gunners. Gunny Von Rito was a marine who was the gunnery warrant’s senior NCO. These two 12-pounders would only get one shot before they recoiled back across the deck. Von Rito was determined to insure that this one blast of grape would get maximum “payback” for the cowardly, treacherous attack that had murdered their captain and first officer.
The majority of their marines were under the command of Corporal Kobbsven. They were the only ones in view on the upper deck, crouching along the railing, looking like a “normal” boarding party.
Their new captain had put it clearly. “Unless I specifically say otherwise, every swinging, living creature on this Ship, including the cook and her cat, will go across the upper red-side bow in the boarding party.” Indeed, somewhere in the party was the one-eyed old cook, Roxy, her cat, all the other cats, and all the ship’s dogs. Many of the crew lay on the maindeck, under artfully draped tarps or inside the phony cutter. Those who couldn’t find room on the maindeck waited below, on the upper gundeck, ready to swarm out the for’ard hatch and join the boarding party.
What was about to happen wasn’t a boarding, but a mass exodus from a dying Ship. For all they knew, the ship’s rats also sat poised to join them.
Lady Elphinstone was one of those who waited below on the upper gundeck. Lieutenant Melville had offered her an opportunity to remain below, with the wounded, on Broadax’s world. Her response was simply to say, “My duty is to tend our wounded. Where thou art going, there shall be wounded, and so I must go.”
She and her “lob-lolly girl,” Mrs. Vodi, held their medicine bags. Their two medical assistants, or “corpsmen,” Pete Etzen and Thadeaus Brun, stood by with even more medical equipment packed on their backs. Under ordinary circumstances Elphinstone and Vodi would never be in the boarding party. That was Doc Etzen and Doc Brun’s job. But anyone who stayed behind on this Ship could expect nothing but certain death. The only hope of survival was in rapidly boarding the enemy’s Ship. Something the curs were apt to violently resent and resist.
A cloud of distraught, distressed cats milled around Elphinstone and Vodi. For many hundreds of years a systematic effort had been dedicated to breeding dogs and cats for intelligence. The cats and dogs assigned to the Westerness Navy were the cream of the crop of a centuries-long breeding program. The result was that the cats had some idea what was going on, and they didn’t like it. Not one bit. The whole thing seemed completely beneath their dignity.
The dogs also had a good sense of what was going on and, as usual, thought it was all a great, glorious game. “Fetch boy! Go get the ship!”
Darren Barlet, the gunnery warrant, strode the lower gundeck. Black as a gun barrel, whipcord lean, with a ramrod posture and a shaven head, Barlet was a wizard at long-range gunnery. His men joked admiringly that if all else failed they could lay him on a gun carriage and use him as a cannon. All he had to do was put a cannonball in his mouth and command it to seek the enemy. His men were certain that the ball wouldn’t dare disobey.
“Switch guns to get as much firepower as you can up for’ard on the red-side, above and below,” Lieutenant Melville had ordered. “Run painted logs out as Quaker guns to fill any gaps, so that the enemy won’t know what we’re doing. Load nothing but grape or canister in every gun.”
“Aye, sir,” the master gunner replied quietly.
“Your job is to suppress the enemy’s guns. Every hit they get on us is another chance they might knock the Keel loose. Keep the pressure on them. Fire canister and grape into those big gun ports as long, as hard, and as fast as you can.”
“Aye, sir,” again, quietly with a nod.
“Guns, at first the danger will be from the bow chaser on the lower green-side. Focus our two lower bow chasers there. Then, as we close up, bow-to-bow on our red-sides, I want you to suppress those two guns on the lower red-side. On the upper side, have the bow chasers try to clear the ticks out of the rigging. No ball shot, you understand? You’ll just damage our Ship, for that is what the enemy’s Ship is. Our Ship by God. Aye, and the curs owe us one! As soon as we come alongside, give one or two last shots of grape into those lower gun ports, then all the gun crews race up and join the boarding party.”